Ever the Changing Seasons
by Geale
Summary: If she had not been an elf he would never have seen it. He would never have seen them. But he saw them and he cannot forget. Aragorn/Arwen, Faramir/Legolas and Aragorn/Legolas/Faramir. Please observe het, slash and threesome (the boys). Set after the books.
**Summary:** If she had not been an elf he would never have seen it. He would never have seen them. But he saw them and he cannot forget. Please observe het, slash and threesome (the boys)!
 **Pairing:** Aragorn/Arwen, Faramir/Legolas and Aragorn/Legolas/Faramir  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Warnings:** Slash, het, threesome and some angst.  
 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **A/N:** I realise I'm repeating a certain theme but after posting "The Deepest Pain" this one just poured out of me.

 **Ever the Changing Seasons**

Their bedchamber lies wrapped in the soft bluish glow of late spring nights. Silken sheets and not a sound, but for her breathing. And his. His breathing is heavy. Too heavy to match hers.

And his skin is crawling. He reaches for her, tries once more, tonight also. He slips a hand around her waist, lets his palm press against her nightgown. She is warm. Not scorching like him.

She makes a sound, something like a moan and it arouses him. Further.

He pushes up against her, places his lips on her neck and leaves a kiss there. She is ever so soft, so beautiful.

There is a furrow between her dark brows and it deepens as he slides his palm over her belly. After birthing their four children she is not as slim as she once was but the Valar know how he responds to her.

He to her.

She makes another sound, this time not what he wishes to hear. Even as he cups her breast she turns away from him, half sleeping, half awake. Her dark hair gleams in the moonlight as she moves onto her belly, face towards the windows. His hand is left unused, empty, on her back.

He presses himself down into the mattress, his need too great for this peace. He buries his face in his silken pillow and bites down. He will not do it. He will not take himself in hand and bring his body to a lonely completion. It is her he wants, soft and wet and willing. But Arwen Undómiel has not been willing for some time.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Every shift he makes on the bed sends a new stab of desire through him. He wishes for her, he always wishes for her. But she never for him.

-ooo-

He catches him lingering by the high window, gaze tracing the City below and the plains yonder. There is a thoughtful look about him and a silence. The summer sun is setting and yet another day is nearing its end.

Aragorn hesitates, does not wish to disturb the peace or the thoughts of his Steward. Where Boromir was hasty, Faramir is unhurried, but just as his brother he will not so easily spill his secrets. But, Aragorn reflects, neither does he and therefore he can blame neither of them.

But in this moment he thinks he can sense what Faramir is thinking and so he walks up to him and joins him by the window.

"The road from Eryn Lasgalen is good," he begins, softly.

"My lord…" Faramir's eyes, expressive, fix on him. "Forgive me, I was lost in thought."

He cannot help but smile. "Tell me, have I hinted at any displeasure?"

"No. No, you have been most… most kind, my lord."

The sinking sun is painting the White City a dazzling crimson.

-ooo-

The private dining chamber can easily hold up to twenty guests and still retain a feeling of intimacy. Tonight they are not as many but plenty enough. Besides the King and Queen, a few of Aragorn's most trusted advisers from the King's council, the ambassador of Rohan and Aragorn's dearest friends have gathered here tonight. Some have risen to shake off the drowsiness that the meal has left them with and wandered over to the windows but, further down the table, Faramir and Legolas are still seated, very close.

He watches them. Not for some purpose, really, but because, vaguely, it gives him pleasure. Faramir, now so unlike the timid man the King once brought back to the light, is sitting back in his chair – indeed, almost half lying in it – with long legs stretched out before him, serenely claiming his space. And Legolas, more eager beside him, with a straight back and his bright blue eyes only on his companion. Talking.

He watches as Faramir's face breaks into a smile and how he idly sloshes his wine around in his glass. And he sees when Legolas' hand lands on Faramir's thigh, so naturally. Faramir is shaking his head, and still with that smile in place, but that does not seem to appease the elf. Legolas, old and young at the same time, frowns at him and says something that could be anything. In the end, when Faramir catches his chin between thumb and forefinger and guides their mouths together, only this chases the crease from Legolas' forehead.

Aragorn looks away. It is not a sight foreign to him, and certainly not one he disapproves of. Not at all. No, but there is something so intimate about the way they kiss. There always was. Something that makes him avert his gaze and grant them respite from his attention.

A hand on his arm makes him look up.

"I think I will retire for the night, my lord." Her eyes are cool, her smile gracious.

He remembers a time when those same words were so different. When they made his blood warm. Indeed, when they set it afire. How she would speak them and in her smile would be every shade possible of a promise.

 _My lord, I think I shall retire for the night…_

And it drove him mad that he could not rise to follow her to their bedchamber because he was King and could not cast aside his duties so lightly. So he would suffer through another glass of wine while she undressed, smooth silks rushing over her skin, in another part of the King's Houses. He would imagine her stretching out in their bed, her hair fanning out, so open and so ready. And when he finally joined her and her legs locked around his waist and he drove deep inside her, he was the luckiest man in Arda.

He nods. "Of course, my lady."

She does not touch him again. She lets the ambassador of Rohan leave a kiss on her hand and Legolas one on her cheek but she only inclines her head to Faramir. But she always smiles.

When she is gone he breathes easier.

-ooo-

Anor has sunk deep beyond the horizon when they finally rise from the table. His councillors and the ambassador take their leave and left are Aragorn and Faramir and Legolas.

His Steward stretches and his copper hair catches the last glow of the fire. "Thank you, Aragorn. You are too generous with your time."

Aragorn shakes his head. "The days are long in the summer."

"Even so. Do you ever sleep?" It is such an innocent question. Faramir cannot know.

"More than I ever did when I was young."

Faramir smiles. "You are not old, my lord. I deny it."

Legolas is beside him, his arm finding a place around Faramir's waist. They are almost of the same height. "You are the youngest of us all, _meleth_. You have no right to speak of old age." He strokes Faramir's hair away from his face and presses a kiss to his lips. As if they have no audience at all, Faramir cups the back of his head and deepens it.

For once, Aragorn keeps watching. It seems to him ages ago that he once did a similar thing to a lover of his own. To his wife.

When they part he can see it: the lust. The usual sparkle in Legolas' clear eyes is dimmed and he does not immediately close his mouth. Aragorn knows he should turn away but after so many months, almost a year – two years? – it intrigues him to see arousal in another, even if it is in his closest friend.

But that is wrong. It is wrong how Legolas' desire should wake desire in himself. He knows this and yet it appears some outside force is controlling him, holding him in place as Faramir dips his head and drags reddened lips over Legolas' throat. Faramir steps into the elf's space, gently nudging a knee between his legs. Legolas' head falls back a little as his eyes drift closed.

When a soft moan escapes the Steward the spell is broken.

Faramir's cheeks flush and his hands spring back from his lover. He is brave enough to turn to Aragorn but too ashamed to look him in the eye. "My lord, forgive me, I…" He bites his lip and glances sideways at the elf.

Aragorn did not know he had stopped breathing. Now he draws a deep breath, trying to find footing among too many impulses.

Legolas is the first to look up. " _Mellon, goheno nin…_ I did not think."

Brusquely, Aragorn shakes his head. "No… I… I do not mind." Even before the elf raises an eyebrow he knows it came out wrong. His throat is dry and there is too little air in the dining chamber. "Please." He forces a smile onto his face. He consciously drops his shoulders. "I wish you a good night."

"My lord…" Faramir is troubled.

The first time he saw that desperate light in the young man's eyes he vowed to himself that he would do his very best to give Faramir the comfort and security he, during all his years in the service of his own father, so sorely had lacked. Now this kiss in front of his King has made him doubt his place in Aragorn's heart again.

And it is his duty to make it right again. Casting aside his thoughts Aragorn steps up to him. "Worry not," he says and finds that in Faramir's presence his heart is only light. And it may still be unorthodox in the eyes of others but he leans in and, as he has done so many times before, brushes his lips to the young man's cheek.

Faramir looks more at ease when he draws back. "Thank you."

"Aragorn…" Legolas' hand is on his shoulder. "Sleep well."

This kiss, too, is meant to be no more than what he offered Faramir but Legolas twists his head just so and their mouths collide.

It is long since he kissed anyone on the lips. And it was never a male. Legolas is soft and warm and there is a trace of Faramir there also. He does not move as the elf applies just the smallest amount of pressure.

It is over before he can even begin to plan a reaction. Legolas' blue eyes bear into him like they can read his very thoughts so he turns away. Faramir's eyes have grown wide. There is complete silence.

Aragorn licks his lips. He leaves.

-ooo-

"Come, Legolas, it is almost nightfall!"

The westering sun is sinking behind the rooftops, sending a flood of light over the stone; it is a red and orange glow, like melted carnelian almost. Aragorn looks sideways and smiles at the way the sunset makes its home in Faramir's copper locks.

They are leaning against the fence, and have been for some time now. A lazy evening breeze is drifting over the practice fields and the kicked-up dirt has dusted the late autumn grass.

"How much longer do we give him?"

His Steward shakes his head. "Not much." He frowns. "Legolas!"

The elf spins, blades gleaming in the ruddy light and hair dancing around his face. "Aye?"

Faramir spreads his hands in impatient query. A moment passes and then Legolas grins. A step, two, cross turn, arms raised and light flashes again as the air sings. The knives bury themselves deep into the bale of hay, side by side.

"Eru!" Faramir groans. He turns to Aragorn and exasperation is written all over his features. "My lord, tell me what to do."

Aragorn chuckles and shakes his head. "I could not say."

"He is your friend."

"And _your_ lover."

There is a twitch in the corner of Faramir's mouth but he does not give in. "You have known him for nigh on fifty years..."

"Seventy would be a fairer count," Aragorn tells him.

"So?"

"So?"

When Faramir only sighs Aragorn smiles. He lays a hand on his Steward's shoulder and squeezes. "Return to the Houses, eat and go to bed. He will join you eventually, I am sure."

He earns himself an elbow in the rib for that but Faramir is not one to play at quarrelling for long. "It is…" he says, leaning back into the fence. "I mean, I feel…"

Aragorn regards him in silence, waiting.

Faramir licks his lips and he looks down at the ground. "I am unused to this," he says, finally.

"I know…" Aragorn lays an arm around his shoulders and brings him close. He presses a kiss to Faramir's hair. "You are doing well. Very well indeed."

For a short while Faramir leans into him, then straightens. Even after all these years there is still a shade of unease about him at times.

Aragorn pulls his cloak a little tighter around him and silence is about to settle again between them when apparently Legolas decides that he has had enough for tonight. Quick as a moonbeam, he sheathes his knives and picks up his bow and quiver. He strides over to them, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and with a smile.

"You were saying?" He leans in across the fence and leaves a quick kiss on Faramir's lips. His blue eyes glitter in the darkening evening.

"That I had not thought that our practice grounds were the reason for your visit."

Legolas' smile is wicked enough to bring an odd twist to _Aragorn's_ stomach.

-ooo-

When he sees Legolas next he means to speak with him. He cannot have a Steward so lost in heavy contemplation and undeclared longing that he becomes quite miserable.

'You must realise,' he means to tell his friend, 'that time moves differently for Faramir. That he grows older as you remain unchanged.'

He has given this some thought. Has decided that someone will have to take the first step. Faramir never will, he has understood. And Legolas, still in the service of his father – by habit more than necessity, Aragorn thinks – journeys randomly to Minas Tirith and does not comprehend how this wearies Faramir.

So he has resolved to speak with him. To settle it for them, if he can. To spare Faramir the pain of not knowing.

He shifts onto his side. The winter stars are distant and their light is cold.

As if he has forgotten for a moment, he almost reaches for her. She is sleeping, lost in dreams he no longer shares.

-ooo-

She is seated on the bed, hair half braided and only dressed in a simple shift. There is endless sorrow in her eyes. She tries to reason with him, tries to make him see but her words – these words – cannot soothe.

"Please," she says. "Please understand… It is in my _nature_..."

He almost knew this, had heard it mentioned. Had chosen not to believe it because theirs was a love graced by the very gods themselves.

"You cannot ask of me that which I do not wish to do."

No, he cannot. He will not force himself upon her. Never. But there is a bitter taste in his mouth. "Is it your wish, then, that I seek pleasure elsewhere?"

It is cruel. Even as the question fills their bedchamber he regrets it. He cannot believe they have come to this.

And she should protest but her response is too slow in coming. A breath, a small space of silence before she shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes. "No", she says, "no, I do not wish for that."

But he is backing away from her already. Her hands lie open in her lap, with the wintry sunlight dancing about her. She has no more to offer him. "I love you. You have my heart."

And that is all he thought ever wanted from her, when he was young and she was but a dream, or so it seemed to him. But the years have turned his dreams into reality and matters have become complicated.

"Elessar!" his chosen name from her lips. So foreign, so much distance. She pleads but will not surrender. He loves her strength. He loves her.

But he takes another step, separating himself from her. When he is closer to the door than to their bed her gaze becomes iron. There is a tightness in her jaw that is new. "No woman. No other female." And by that she binds him forever to solitude.

-ooo-

He sees them one morning when they think they are alone, when it is still too early for anyone to be up. They are on Faramir's balcony, waiting for the sunrise, while the white stone stretches out under the last, fading light of the stars.

Faramir is in Legolas' arms and the elf is draped over him, one leg wedged between Faramir's. He is kissing the mortal's neck, his blonde hair tied back and giving Aragorn an excellent view. His hands are busy on Faramir's hips, angling them. They are dressed but it does not seem to matter. Faramir is leaning against the rail, head tipped to the side and one hand coming up to guide Legolas mouth to his own.

The man slowly turns in the elven arms. He leans back against the stone as he is kissed. Legolas skims his hands over his chest, over his simple shirt. Then he pauses for a moment and in the sleepy, wasting night Aragorn thinks he can hear Faramir laughing.

Legolas slides down his body, comes down on his knees and is hidden from view. Faramir places his hand on something and it takes Aragorn too long to realise that it must be Legolas' hair he is touching. His head.

Swallowing hard, Aragorn swiftly turns his back to them. He should not be watching this. This is private, he knows, not for his eyes. But it is too late.

 _Her dancing eyes as she bites her lip. She may be almost three thousand years old but now she looks no more than a few hundred. His blood is rushing through his veins at a pace that makes him dizzy._

' _You do not have to…' His voice is already hoarse. And they have not even begun._

' _But I want it. I wish to try.'_

' _Arwen, beloved…'_

 _She smiles again. Lifts her hand and it lands on his hip. He hardens before her very eyes._

' _Husband.' She speaks the word with wonder in her voice. Then she touches him. Her fingers against his risen flesh are warm. Her mouth ever warmer. Her mouth becomes the world._

 _They guessed afterwards that that was the night, their first together, when Eldarion was conceived._

Aragorn presses the heel of his hand to his crotch, to his wakening length. He wills his thoughts back to the present, tries to force his memories away. But to no avail.

 _He rolls her over, laces their fingers together and kisses her full breasts. She arches up to meet him, a moan spilling from her lips into the wintry morning. He has come inside her once already but will do it again if she wants it. He will swell again if she desires it. Arwen leads and Aragorn follows. He has no other choice. He would have it no other way._

 _When he slides into her again she is so wet. He is on top of her, blindly seeking her mouth with his own. She draws her knees up and he sinks even deeper until he is so anchored in her that he cannot fathom how they will ever manage to part again._

There is a bleak greenish light fingering the eastern sky as Aragorn fumbles with his laces. He pulls out his cock and the cool morning air almost overpowers his needs. He should leave it at that, allow his mortal desires to melt away in the light of the rising sun. But he does not.

Even as shame assails him he turns his head to glance over his shoulder. At Faramir's balcony. He does not mean to spy on them, has never had any desire to do so before. They are beloved friends.

A rush of blood to his face. Legolas is on his feet again, breeches discarded. He is pressing up against Faramir's back, one arm holding his lover steady against the railing and one arm around his hips. One hand working Faramir's cock with insistent strokes. Faramir is in a similar state of undress. He is holding onto the stone, head tipped forwards with his hair falling to obscure his face. It is a wonder how silent they are.

Aragorn is staring. He knows it, distantly. Also, he knows, he is tugging at his own flesh and spreading the fast forming liquid at the tip over himself. He stares as Legolas thrusts, causing Faramir's knees to almost bend. Somehow, Aragorn would have thought their roles would be reversed.

They are too far away for him to make out any other details but this is enough. It does not take long before he spills his release over the white stone.

-ooo-

The sword sinks in to the hilt. Aragorn follows, panting.

The sky is a deep blue and the practice grounds are being deserted. With a growl he reaffirms his grip on the hilt and pulls it all the way out. He is soaked through with sweat.

"My lord?"

"Yes?"

The boy's eyes are wide. "It is growing late, sire…"

"Stand back," Aragorn orders his squire.

"But…"

They are everywhere now, filling his vision. Legolas' hands on Faramir's shoulders, on his waist. Faramir's lips, reddened. Tracing the pointed peak of Legolas' ear.

If she had not been an elf he would never have seen it. Never have _seen_ them. If it had not been in her very nature to, after having given birth to their children, lose interest in the physical aspects of their union.

He wants her. He wants her so badly he could scream.

"My lord?"

" _Stand back."_

Andúril, his greatsword, sweeps through the building night, hisses in the air and comes down, steely cold from a high arc. It takes the head of the dummy off with a single, clean swipe.

-ooo-

The ink is almost dry. Aragorn tentatively touches it with a fingertip. His skin comes away clean. Satisfied he lifts away the parchment and pulls in the next one.

"My lord?"

"Hm?" Aragorn looks up.

Across the room, Faramir is leafing through a thick tome bound in leather that is so dry it has cracked in places. "Right here," the Steward's frown is deep. He taps a page with a forefinger. "According to this, an attempt was made to redirect the stream a little to the west over seventy-five years ago but the project was abandoned… Wait…"

Aragorn puts down his quill. "Why?"

"Because of the soil it seems, too stony and hard to dig through…" He lowers the book. "We could make a new attempt, I suppose. Set the dwarves on it…" He smiles. He is dusty.

Aragorn shakes his head. "It is no place for a mine, Faramir. So near the road."

His Steward crosses the floor. "I have no part in this. I am not the one who claims to have found gold." He dumps the book on Aragorn's desk. "I am only your humble servant."

Before he even knows what he is doing, Aragorn reaches for his hand. His Steward's skin is already slightly bronzed though spring is still waxing, and his palm is broad. He brings that hand to his lips and presses a kiss into that skin. When he looks up, Faramir's eyes have widened a little.

Silence lowers itself around them and none of them moves. Then Faramir does.

His Steward takes a step closer. His hand breaks free of Aragorn's light grasp and lands on the King's cheek. From there it travels into his hair. Faramir combs his fingers through Aragorn's dark tresses, finds his neck and applies just a hint of pressure.

The sigh that rushes past Aragorn's lips is swallowed up by the dusty room.

One step closer and Aragorn's eyes are at a level with Faramir's groin. His lips part involuntarily.

Fingers on the back of his neck, in his hair. The hand presses his cheek to Faramir's thigh. As if from a great distance Aragorn watches his own hand come to land on a spot near Faramir's hip.

Above him, his Steward's breathing is deepening. Faramir's hand leaves his hair. It comes to cover Aragorn's and it guides it to the place where it should not be.

The bulge in Faramir's breeches grows under Aragorn's palm. He cups it.

It is like touching himself and yet so different. He feels Faramir hardening. He strokes his palm against the wool, creating heat and friction.

There is a moan.

He wonders if he could do this. He has watched them for a couple of years now, seen their kisses and the way they touch. And he has seen more than that.

"I cannot."

He glances up and sees Faramir blink his eyes open. He is beautiful.

But his hand is still on that risen flesh. The warmth between them still mounting. There is a twinge near his heart when Faramir's licks pale lips. "My lord…"

"I…" Aragorn has no explanation he is willing to give. "I am sorry."

Faramir nods. Draws a breath, a second. With what looks like much difficulty he takes a step back, releasing any hold he might have had on Aragorn.

-ooo-

The wine is making the sharp edges a little blunter. She is standing near one of the fires, cocking her head and smiling. The young envoy from Pelargir is utterly captivated. She would have made a fine diplomat.

Their bedchamber is his own. There is a literal wall between their beds now.

The Great Hall of Minas Tirith is crowded and the din is rising. He gets up.

It was not his intention to find them but of course he does.

They have found a secluded corner in one of the smaller chambers.

He means to turn away before they spot him but his feet only draw him closer.

"Do you wish to be left alone?" It is a stupid question.

Legolas looks up from the sofa. Faramir is half sitting, half lying back against him. Their hands are entwined atop Faramir's flat belly. Faramir looks already lost in whatever Aragorn has walked in on. The elf's eyes are not as clear as they can be and his cheeks are slightly flushed.

"No."

Faramir lifts his head a little. His eyes narrow. Questing eyes that Aragorn feels an urge to shy away from.

But it is Legolas who speaks again. "Lock the door, Aragorn."

He should not, but he does. The music still drifts through to them but the rest of the world is beyond reach now. He comes closer, the stone floor under his boots all of a sudden wobbling. There is anxiety churning deep in his belly.

Legolas, one of his oldest friends, locks eyes with him. "Stay, Aragorn. Stay and watch."

And he does this also. He watches as Legolas strokes his palms over Faramir's chest, kisses his temple, urges him back down against his chest. As those hands come sliding down until they reach Faramir's groin. How they tease and rub, and how Faramir's eyes fall closed on a soft moan.

Aragorn watches as Legolas unties his lover's leggings and frees his cock. His mouth goes dry when Legolas strokes, reveals the glistening head and cups the sac just underneath the base of Faramir's flesh.

And Aragorn hardens, too.

Before they forget him he walks up to them, one hand already inside his breeches. Before they shut him out he grabs hold of his throbbing cock and brushes its head against Legolas' mouth.

He had not expected the smile. Legolas swallows him whole.

Aragorn drowns in that warmth, that wetness. He holds still, simply absorbing the sensation. Then he pulls back and pushes in again. When the elf begins to suck he thinks that he will come apart.

 _Her smile was all the reassurance he needed. Still, he has to know, to be sure. 'Did I hurt you?'_

' _No.' She has curled around him._

' _I did not mean to…' He lifts a hand to cup her cheek. 'You were…'_

 _Her lips are red and her eyes gleaming. He wants to kiss that mouth that gave him such pleasure._

' _Come here…'_

Someone makes a sound. Aragorn's eyes fly open just as Legolas sucks him deep inside one more time. Aragorn's head spins. Through a haze that is clouding his vision he sees Faramir arch back against Legolas, hands gripping the cushions. He is almost forgetting the feel of his own cock in Legolas' mouth.

And he barely notices it when Legolas lets him slide from his lips. He has never heard the elf's voice so rough before, not even in battle. "No, wait… love, I need…"

Dazed, Aragorn watches Legolas abandon Faramir's jerking flesh and push him up to sit. With a stab of something achingly hot through his breast Aragorn realises there is more to this. Legolas' leggings are already open and he is swollen and weeping at the tip.

Lost in this, he watches as Faramir pulls himself together enough to push down his leggings. He twists around and Legolas leans forward. There is a hunger in Faramir's face that Aragorn could never have imagined.

For a moment it is just the two of them.

"Are you still open enough?"

"Yea," Faramir's voice is merely an exhale. He scoots back. Lifts himself up.

Forgotten, Aragorn stares. He sees Legolas' flesh twitching before the elf grabs it at the base and guides it into Faramir. The latter's groan is what sets Aragorn's blood on fire and his hand moving on his own flesh again.

They sink back onto the cushions, eyes floating closed, brows furrowed and lips parted. Alike, and so different.

"Yes…" Legolas' breath rushes out of him, making Faramir smile. "So good."

When he rolls his hips, Aragorn's gasp blends with Faramir's, as if he could feel the intrusion himself.

"My lord…" Faramir's breathes. "Here…"

On legs that are shaking, Aragorn steps closer to him. Faramir tilts his head and opens his eyes a fraction. "May I?"

He has never felt more exposed even though it is not him on the sofa. He nods.

Faramir's mouth is as warm as Legolas'. He pushes inside, mind reeling. Through Faramir he can feel Legolas' thrusts.

Faramir's sucking is erratic but it does not matter. He takes himself in hand when Legolas can no longer focus. Through heavily lidded eyes Aragorn sees Faramir's hand on his own length, and the way Legolas is disappearing into him.

It has been too long.

He has no control over his release when it hits him. He should have pulled out of Faramir's mouth before it was upon him but he does not have the time. He loses his hold on his senses as he empties himself in that warmth.

His own groan is ringing in his ears. He feels Faramir's tongue pressing against his throbbing flesh and how he swallows. He loses his ability to stand by himself, grasping at anything for purchase. But support finds him and Legolas' arm curls around the back of his thighs.

Too late he pulls from Faramir's mouth, the air colliding with his burning flesh and chasing new shivers across his skin. Faramir's head falls to the side and he groans. His hand freezes on his own cock and he tenses visibly.

Legolas' pace has grown frantic and he grasps at Aragorn legs for something to hold on to. To aid him, Aragorn drops to his knees and Legolas finds his shoulder.

The elf does not open his eyes but there is a smile on his lips when he exhales roughly. "Kiss me, Estel."

Aragorn rushes into that kiss. Legolas' tongue drives deep into his mouth and steals his breath. So overcome is he that misses the moment Faramir comes. He feels the tension snap, however, and the current of energy in them. Legolas' follows his lover's lead.

Aragorn kisses him over and over and over as they both make it through. He does not know when he is pulled away and his fingers twine with Faramir's sticky ones and he jolts when his palm is pressed to the jerking flesh but he helps Faramir empty himself and finally be done.

They lay panting. Aragorn draws back a fraction. It seems to him now that they curl into one another. It is visible in the way Faramir rubs his cheek against Legolas' chest and in the way the elf's arm comes to cradle him.

Small spasms, the aftershocks, make them smile and Aragorn cannot help himself. He slides his hand from Faramir's weakening grasp and bites his lip as he traces with a forefinger the place where their bodies are joined.

It makes Legolas whimper and his cock jerks where it is still sheathed in Faramir. "Again…"

Aragon shoots him a glance. The elf's eyes are closed. So he does it, gently rubbing Faramir's ring of muscle and Legolas' flesh. This time Faramir lets out a long moan. "Oh, gods…" He shakes his head against Legolas' chest, eyes still closed and brows drawn together. "I don't think I can…"

His eyes flutter open. His shirt is rumpled and sweaty. Aragorn's heart skips a beat when he smiles. "Come and lie down."

"There is no room." It comes out harder than it should have.

Faramir's smile fades a little. "Love?"

Legolas stirs. He lifts his head and presses a kiss into Faramir's copper locks. He does not so much reply as hum.

Again, Aragorn has to assume the role of a witness as they untangle. It takes a while. There are lingering touches, traded kisses and, even after they are dressed and standing, a long embrace that ends in a kiss that does nothing but expand the longing in his heart.

They need to wash. He does not expect he will see them again that night, not when it is so obvious that they need to still touch.

He makes for the door, for the guests beyond. For a feast he cares nothing for. His hand is on the lock when Legolas speaks.

"Aragorn?"

But he leaves them.

He realises, then, that he never did speak with Legolas about his courting of Faramir.

-ooo-

Cooler winds are drawing in from the west and the days grow shorter. Aragorn lies awake watching the night crawl by. His bed is cold.

He dreamed of her. Or maybe not. He woke with his flesh throbbing and sweat already on his brow but his own release brought him nothing.

Ha cannot forget. No matter how he tries, his mind traps him. Her breast in his hands becomes hardened flesh and her soft belly the flat planes of his Steward's chest.

He rolls over, demanding his thoughts to scatter but they do not. He is ready to scream, or ready to cry, but it makes no difference. He cannot forget.

-ooo-

His feet bring him to their door. He carries no candle and no hopes but he must know.

He knocks. And they open.

Well, Faramir does, and he frowns as he takes in the sight of Aragorn on their threshold. "My lord, is something the matter?"

Aragorn silences him with a bruising kiss. When it is over his Steward's face is full of shock. "It's been weeks."

"Aye," says Aragorn, "and I have no sanity left."

But where Faramir should express concern he does not. Instead he smiles. His hand closes around Aragorn's. He guides his King into their chambers and they find Legolas with a book on the bed. The elf is wearing nothing but his breeches. His eyebrows rise as his gaze lands on them.

"Tonight?"

Aragorn nods. "Tonight," he confirms.

And Legolas lays aside the book and exhales. "Finally."

 **End**

Comments are, as always, welcome.


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